


Untethered

by jessalae



Series: For You, I Would Ruin Myself [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fantasizing, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Subspace, Teasing, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: It seems like Quentin’s body is starting to remember that actually, surrendering can be good, too, if you do it right. If you think about the right things, and do it for the right reasons.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: For You, I Would Ruin Myself [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855582
Comments: 22
Kudos: 109





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All right, I got some of my FEELINGS out of my system with the first couple of fics in this series, now I can get back to my roots and just write some straight up porn. :D 
> 
> (I kid, I will never run out of FEELINGS about these two. But this one’s definitely heavier on the porn side of porn-with-feelings.)

Quentin's been thinking -- what else is new, he’s always thinking -- but lately he’s been thinking about himself, and what he can’t do. Not in like, an incompetence way, but _can’t_ on the level of _will panic and melt down, because Monster_. He hates that he still has things that are like that. It’s been months since he started considering himself mostly better, they got rid of the thing a few months before that, every passing day carries him even further away from that nightmare, he knows that. But there are still-- scars. On his mind, or maybe his soul. 

Quentin's poked and prodded around the edges of the things he _can't do_ enough now that he kind of knows exactly the pattern those scars make. He knows where not to go. Or where logic says he shouldn’t want to go, anyway. And yet he can't stop poking, turning things over and over in his head trying to figure out what boundary might give, if he pushes. He _wants_ these scars to be looser. He doesn’t want the Monster to keep winning. They got it, locked it away. Shouldn’t that count for something? And some of the _can’t do_ stuff, he really misses, resents that that fucking bullshit demon asshole took them away from him. 

Like the one he’s been working at lately: being submissive. Letting go, giving away control. He and Eliot used to play around with it in their other life, and he fucking _loved_ it, letting Eliot direct him and use him and letting his brain just _stop_ for once. Stop trying to make it good, stop worrying that it wasn't. When Eliot was in charge, all Quentin had to do was follow directions, and amazing things would happen. He misses that tingly, floaty feeling, being disconnected from everything except the fun parts of his body and his awareness of Eliot. He wants to find it again.

But there's an extremely fucking big difference between surrendering yourself to someone who loves you and wants you to have a good time, and surrendering yourself to avoid getting killed by something that just wants. And it turns out that doing the second thing for a while makes it really hard to get back into the first thing.

He’s nothing if not stubborn, though, and he knows himself best, and there’s no way he’s giving up on the possibility of having something so good without being absolutely sure there’s no other option. So he’s been -- experimenting.

Eliot's gotten in on the weird word-of-mouth grapevine classically-trained Magicians use to find paying magical work, and now every couple weeks he spends a few days off in some exotic location, doing the behind-the-scenes spellwork to make someone's graduation party or wedding reception or happy hour go extremely, extremely well. And when he’s away, Quentin is alone in the apartment, with plenty of time to play around. 

He started out just-- thinking about it (again, when is he not thinking). Then he got brave enough to do a little research, learn how to tie some knots, watch some relevant porn. Imagine that he’s the one on the screen in the ropes or the handcuffs, Eliot is the one working him over and making him feel so fucking good.

When he starts being able to get himself off to those fantasies without being consumed by fear or guilt for afterwards, he knows he’s made a breakthrough. The next time Eliot goes out of town, Quentin takes the coil of soft cotton rope out of the bottom of the bedside drawer, tries a few things out. Tests the feel of it against his skin, the pressure of having it looped around his limbs, then gently tied. 

And it’s all been going-- pretty great, actually. It seems like Quentin’s body is starting to remember that actually, surrendering can be good, too, if you do it right. If you think about the right things, and do it for the right reasons.

Today Quentin sits on the couch, apartment door carefully locked and room warded to make Travelers "knock" before they come in. He wraps the rope carefully around his own wrist, measuring the tightness with a finger slipped under the loops. Square knots aren't easy to tie one-handed, but he’s figured out how to apply just a little tug of magic on one end, and that does the trick. And then Quentin has a little rope cuff around his wrist, not tying him to anything, just... holding.

He sits with the feeling, closes his eyes. The pressure is nice. He didn’t even have to breathe through any adjustment period, today, it was just enjoyable right off the bat. When he opens his eyes, the way the rope spirals around his wrist looks good, he likes it.

He loops the other end of the rope around the leg of the coffee table and ties it in place. He tests the bond: it doesn't make the cuff tighten, he's got a little slack to move around. It's nice, when he tugs hard, to watch his muscles flexing and not getting anywhere. He doesn't really get what Eliot sees in his body that he likes so much, but in the abstract, if he forgets it's him, yeah, that's hot.

He closes his eyes again, lays sideways on the couch so the rope pulls taut. His hand stays down by his knee, no matter how he tries to pull it closer. He squirms, pretends like he's trying to touch himself, like both hands are tied so he can't reach and he wants it so bad, _fuck_ he's so hard and Eliot said he was just gonna watch, not touch, until Quentin put on a show for him--

Quentin opens his eyes, breathing hard. That’s a new one, dredged up from the back of his brain, and it’s-- yeah. Definitely something to add to the list of ‘things we should revisit when I can do this with Eliot again.’

He moves his tied-up fingers through a couple of tuts, and the knots unwind themselves immediately. It was definitely worth the effort and the absurd amount of saffron needed to enchant the rope. Being able to undo it whenever he needs to, wordlessly and quickly, soothes away the little ball of tension at the base of his spine that still shows up sometimes when he experiments.

He ties the rope around one ankle next, then tries tying his wrists together (holding the loops in place in midair with magic so he can slip his hands through them), then tying his ankles together. Ankle by itself is fine, wrists together is fine, ankles together is an immediate no-thanks, today, he unties the knots with magic so fast his fingers shake. Maybe that's enough for now.

He glances at the clock. That last misstep sent his dick from half-hard to totally uninterested, but he's not expecting Eliot back for a few more hours. And that fantasy from earlier was-- pretty great. He can take a break, then maybe... circle back around.

\--

The problem is always knowing when to move on to the next step, knowing how many times things need to go well before Quentin can be sure he’s ready. Especially when the next step is telling Eliot what he’s been up to, what he’d like to try. Eliot is skittish, still, he could freak out, which would be-- hard. Or he could be very interested and then if Quentin’s not ready, actually, that would be disappointing for both of them. It’s a risk. It’s always a risk. 

But-- these experiments have been going well way, way more than they’ve been going bad. And the bad times don’t last as long, and the good times are getting really good.

Quentin knows perfectly well what time Eliot’s flight is scheduled to land, and he knows what time it is right now. He just, forgot? Maybe. Ignored it, maybe. But in any case, what happens is that Quentin is naked and face down on the bed, hands tied to the headboard, grinding hard against a folded-up pillow imagining it's Eliot's stomach and he's supposed to make himself come like this, Eliot wants to see how desperate he is to get off-- when Eliot actually arrives home.

"Q?" Eliot calls from the living room, and Quentin's eyes snap open.

"Gimme a sec, El," he calls back, heart racing. Is this the right time for this? Does he need longer? Can he stand waiting longer?

He takes a deep breath and decides to trust himself, trust Eliot. He undoes the ropes with the magical quick-release but leaves them looped around his two wrists, then rolls over onto his back and takes himself in hand. "Okay."

Eliot walks in, looking groggy from the international flight, but his eyes sharpen and take in what Quentin's up to as soon as he's through the bedroom door. "Been busy while I've been gone, hm?" he purrs, and then focuses in on the ropes around Quentin's wrists that loop his hands together so they're both right there where he's slowly stroking himself. "Q-- Jesus. Fuck." His fingers twitch, a little, like he wants to grab. "Why do you always do shit like this when I'm all gross from the plane?"

"You can go shower, I'm getting along just fine without you," Quentin says.

"I can see that," Eliot says. "Can I watch?"

Quentin's heart flips over, and his next stroke makes him groan out loud. "If you want," he says.

Eliot looks at the ropes again, then at Quentin's face. "Or--" He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, deliberately calming himself. "If this isn't what you're-- going for, here, let me know, but. What if I go shower, and you keep going, but don't let yourself come until I'm back to see it?"

Quentin shudders hard and makes his hands stop moving so he can think about it, make sure this is going to work. There's a tiny ball of anxiety in his lower back again, not sure it's safe to let Eliot set the boundaries like this because what if he moves them somewhere Quentin doesn't like? But the rest of him is starting to feel pleasantly warm and tingly, thinking about what Eliot might say when he comes back freshly showered and finds that Quentin has been good for him. And of all the ways to try this, this is the lowest possible stakes. He can decide for himself how and when he wants to stop, Eliot's not going to touch him, even. This is-- a good next test. "I'd like that," he says, looking boldly at Eliot.

Eliot's flushed, a little, and he smiles slowly at Quentin. "Good boy," he says. "Get going, then." 

Quentin does, a thrill running over his skin at having a direction to follow, and one that makes him feel so fucking good. Eliot watches him for a moment, then sighs, puts his bag down, and starts undressing, casual as anything. Quentin’s eyes dart over to him, watching hungrily as Eliot’s clothes disappear piece by piece.

"I'm definitely adding to my standard contract that I need to fly business class at _least_ ," Eliot says, once he’s totally naked, standing by the laundry hamper and massaging his own shoulder a bit. "My neck is absolutely killing me. It's going to take a nice long shower to work out all these knots." He looks at Quentin sidelong. "That's not a problem for you, is it?"

"No," Quentin says shakily. It’s not, but he may have to game the system a little bit, barely stroke himself, just light enough to tease. It’s really nice, getting to watch Eliot watching him and try to be good, so good. It’s a little too nice.

Eliot smiles at him. "All right. Would you like a kiss before I go?"

Quentin nods frantically, and Eliot walks over, leans down. Quentin's hands have a job to do, so he can't do anything about it when Eliot stops with his lips millimeters from Quentin's, holds there for the longest three seconds that have ever happened, then smiles and kisses Quentin lightly, a bare brush of lips.

Quentin closes his eyes once Eliot steps away so he can listen for the sound of the bathroom door shutting, the water turning on. Then he relaxes into the mattress, focuses on the slide of his fingers over his cock. He goes nice and slowly, drawing it out. The ends of the rope brush the inside slope of his thighs. His hands can move independent of each other, with the ropes loose like this, but not quite far enough to let him play with his balls in a satisfying way and still keep a hand around his cock, he has to keep stroking himself. Eliot wants him to keep stroking himself. 

Maybe Eliot’s thinking about it in the shower -- maybe he's touching himself too, his lean body dripping water, hand against the tile wall to brace himself as he pulls at his cock, red and heavy and maybe he's been waiting for this for days, waiting to come home to Quentin and let Quentin have all of him--

Quentin realizes his hands have sped up of their own accord, getting him dangerously close to the edge. He huffs out a little disappointed sigh, makes himself slow down, reduce the pressure. He drags his fingertips up the length of his cock, rotates his hand so his nails will just barely scrape on the way back down. It's jarring enough to pull him back just a little. He considers for a moment, then lifts one thigh and maneuvers the end of the rope under it, holds it between his body and the bed. Now he's got less range of motion, so he can't do much except tease himself.

He wonders how close to coming he should try to be. Will Eliot want to watch for a while? Maybe he'll just walk through the door and order Quentin to come immediately. No, that's probably unlikely, he likes teasing Quentin too much to be satisfied with that. He'll sit down on the bed, not saying anything, just stroking his big cock and watching Quentin with dark, hungry eyes, a little smile on his face. Quentin will keep touching himself, he'll be so good. He'll do exactly as he's told.

Quentin's getting close again. He’s found a way to stack his hands and fuck up into them a little, an awkward angle but this way he can get fingers on the head of his cock and all down the shaft and split the motion between his arms and his legs. He listens hard, still hears the shower running. He has to keep going, he needs to be good for Eliot.

Maybe Eliot wants him to be so fucking close, just barely holding on, biting his lip and shivering with each stroke. Maybe that's what he wants to watch, not the long slow build-up to the edge but Quentin teetering right on the precipice, every motion almost too much and never quite enough. There's a push-pull of wanting more and not wanting it to be over that happens in that moment, and Quentin loves it, it blots out everything else in his head and narrows his focus down to that bright moment of pleasure that's almost-not-quite in his grasp.

He's racing towards that moment, now, and shifts to get the rope further under his body, restrict his hands even more. How long is Eliot going to make him wait, anyway? Eliot wouldn't know if Quentin took a break, and even if Eliot did know, nothing bad would happen. But _Quentin_ would know he hadn't been able to live up to Eliot's challenge. So he keeps stroking, worrying his bottom lip carefully between his teeth. It's just the right amount of pain to feel good but keep him from coming, and it reminds him of Eliot's kisses when they get sloppy and desperate.

The shower always makes a kind of _thunk_ noise when the water shuts off, and as soon as he hears it Quentin feels like his skin is on fire, he can't wait for what happens next. He’s so close. He knows Eliot is going to make him keep waiting, he knows, but it doesn't make it any easier to be patient, his dick is so fucking hard in his hand and he wants Eliot's hands on him, Eliot's mouth on his mouth. He's been so good. Will Eliot tell him he's been good? Will he say it? Quentin wants him to say it.

"I'm coming back now," Eliot calls calmly from the bathroom. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Quentin says, and his voice cracks in the middle of it and he doesn't even care. Eliot's coming back, that's all that matters.

Eliot steps back into his field of vision, hair damp, body dried off, towel around his shoulders and cock hard between his legs just like Quentin has been imagining. "Fuck, look at you," Eliot breathes, and he sits down on the end of the bed, facing Quentin. "You've been so good for me, Q, good job."

Quentin twitches and squeezes tight at the base of his cock to keep from coming. "Can I," he pants.

"Any time you want to, love. I'm right here."

The ropes have gotten tight enough around Quentin's hands that he's been mostly stroking at the base, leaving the head of his dick hard and red and untouched and now that he has permission he shifts his weight to free the end of the rope and he can touch the whole length of his cock, fingers flying all the way up and over and tightening so he can fuck into them and _fuck_ , he's gone, he's coming so fucking hard and Eliot at the end of the bed is saying "Yes, fuck, make it good for yourself, Jesus fuck you're so hot."

When he's done he collapses, every muscle going slack, and he immediately hears the rustle of Eliot crawling up beside him. "Okay to touch?" Eliot asks.

"Yeah," Quentin breathes, and sighs happily when Eliot sweeps his hair off his sweaty forehead, kisses him gently on his temple.

"Let's get your hands untied," Eliot asks, and Quentin lifts his wrists a couple inches so Eliot can slide the rope off, massage Quentin's wrists a little bit. Eliot does a cleaning tut, too, clearing the come off of Quentin's stomach and chest.

"You should use real knots next time," he tells Quentin, kissing the inside of Quentin's wrist. "It's too easy to cut off your circulation if you're using a figure-eight loop like that."

"I was fine," Quentin mumbles. He's coming out of the post-orgasmic haze a little, but the floaty feeling is still there and it's so, so nice. He rolls towards Eliot, tucks his face against Eliot's chest.

"So what brought this on?" Eliot asks. His arm is looped loosely over Quentin's waist.

"I wanted to," Quentin says. "Experimenting. Seeing if I could."

"Did I push it too fast?"

"No, that was perfect. So good," Quentin sighs against Eliot's chest. Then it registers: "Wait, you didn't--"

"I don't want to right now," Eliot says soothingly. "I'd rather talk and hold you. You need that, for the come-down. I remember that."

"You were hard, though," Quentin tries to protest, but Eliot's arm across his waist is such a nice warm weight, an anchor point in this blown-open world of sensation.

"My dick gets hard watching you fucking brush your teeth, sometimes. I can get it up again later if we want, I promise."

"Really? That's weird."

"It certainly is," Eliot agrees. "So, you were experimenting. Is this something you want to do with me? Or keep it solo?"

"Even if I'm solo I'm still imagining you're giving the orders," Quentin says.

"I can see how that'd be safer, to sub for imaginary me instead of real me." Eliot kisses the top of Quentin's head, and when Quentin tips his face up he kisses him softly on the lips. "You know you're ultimately in control whenever you sub, but the me in your head can only ask for exactly what you want."

"The real you only asks for exactly what I want anyway." Quentin realizes as he's saying it that... actually, yeah, that's basically true. The things Eliot likes that Quentin doesn't are few and far between, and as far as he remembers, they'd never even been hinted at when they did this power-exchange thing back in their other lifetime. The point was never to punish Quentin, or push towards his limits, or do anything other than make Quentin feel unbelievably good.

"Oh, Q," Eliot sighs, and kisses him again. "You have such faith in me. It's unreal."

The floaty feeling is gradually lifting off Quentin like a fog burning off in the midmorning sun. He lets out a huge, lung-emptying sigh. "Thank you, El," he murmurs. "I love you."

"I love you too." Eliot kisses his temple. "Also, hello. I have returned, how have your last few days been?"

"Uneventful," Quentin says. "Except this. Obviously. I do want to again, by the way. With you."

"Then we'll talk it through and try it," Eliot says. "In a few days, maybe. Longer if you'd prefer. Are there any groceries in the house, or have you been subsisting on ramen again?"

"I’ve been adding an egg to it for protein," Quentin says defensively.

"Takeout for dinner it is," Eliot says. He rolls his neck and groans a bit. "Ugh, I could have stayed in that shower until I used up all the hot water and my neck would still fucking hurt. I really should change my contract."

Quentin's settled back to normal, his pores aren't buzzing with electricity anymore and his brain is once again tethered in his skull where it belongs. And Eliot's pressed against him, naked and smelling like his leave-in conditioner, a long gorgeous line of pale skin all the way down to the foot of the bed. "I'll give you a neck massage," Quentin says, "if you let me give you a blowjob first."

Eliot laughs. "Normally when those two things are exchanged, it's swapping one for the other. You realize that, right?"

"Yeah," Quentin says, shrugging. "But I like giving you blowjobs. And I still feel bad I came and you didn't."

"Let's do that after dinner," Eliot says. "I'm starving, and we should get some food and water in you. I will get hard for you and you can suck my dick before we go to sleep. You have my solemn word," he adds in response to Quentin's slight frown.

Quentin smiles. "Gonna hold you to that."

(He does, later, and Eliot keeps his word.)

\--

They've never really, like... _negotiated_ this stuff out before, officially. They had been out in the boonies in a medieval kingdom, when they were first together, paper and pens hadn't really been available in abundance, much less printable lists of sex acts and kinks to mark as have done, haven’t done, yes, maybe, no. And things between them had been-- different. Simpler, in some ways: in that foreign time and place, Eliot had been all Quentin had, Quentin had been all Eliot had, no distractions or side projects or other people too involved in their lives, at least not the first few years. So when Quentin wanted to slow himself down, put himself under the control of something other than his fucked up brain chemistry, it had only made sense for that something to be Eliot. And it just so happened that Eliot was perfect at it.

More complicated, in some ways, as they had -- avoided labels. Avoided talking about it. Quentin had sucked Eliot's dick seven days a week and still not known how to fill in the blank when the miller had paused in the middle of, "Tell your... tell Eliot I said hello." The words _I love you_ had hung unsaid in the air for literal years before Quentin had finally been brave enough to grab them and offer them, with no real expectation that Eliot would say the same in return. (He hadn't right then, but it hadn't taken him quite as long as Quentin had feared it would, and that day he had -- Quentin treasures that memory.)

But the point is, this is Quentin's first time sitting across a table from Eliot and looking at the words _wrist restraints_ and _degrading names (slut, whore)_ and deciding what to circle. It wouldn't have made any sense to do back then. It maybe doesn't make a lot of sense to do now?

"Is this-- like, is this necessary?" he asks. "Can't we just, do what we feel like?"

Eliot's jaw tightens. "No," he says shortly. "I can't. I can't risk that. I'm sorry, I know it doesn't feel as spontaneous this way, but I can't hurt you."

Quentin's heart aches and he swallows hard. "Sorry," he says. "I." He didn't forget, he just-- "I didn't think about it that way, actually. I trust you."

"Maybe someday I'll trust me too," Eliot says. "But until then, thankfully, the kink community has tools to make sure I do a good job." He circles something on his paper, scribbles a note in the margin that Quentin can't hope to read upside down. "I'm ready to swap lists when you are."

Quentin marks the last option on his list ( _wrestling_ \- never done, maybe interested) and offers his paper to Eliot.

It's good to have words for some of these things. Or know that they're distinct things, anyway. Like, _being bitten_ is a separate category from _bruises_ , although when Quentin gets bitten he wants to see it on his body hours later. Eliot's got similar yesses and maybes on his list, a lot of the same nos. More nos than Quentin has, actually.

"You filled this out for real, right?" Quentin asks, suddenly suspicious. "You didn't like. Pull any punches, because you're worried about me?"

"It's for real," Eliot says. "Were you expecting me to be more of a freak? Using that term in a positive sense."

"A little bit, I guess," Quentin says. "Like." He flips over the page. "I guess mostly there's a lot of stuff that you said here you've done before, but you don't... actually want to do?"

"I was a wayward youth," Eliot says flippantly. "I tried a lot of things before I realized I am, in my heart, a simple man with simple needs."

"And those needs are?" Quentin asks with a smirk.

"A cute boy who enthusiastically wants to fuck," Eliot drawls. "Now stop flirting, this is supposed to be a non-sexual conversation."

"I'm not sure how," Quentin says, looking at the ‘yes’ circled next to _exhibitionism (in front of friends)_. Hm. He gave that one a ‘maybe,’ because he was thinking about like. Julia. But Eliot was probably thinking about Margo...

"Just focus back on one of the ones you don't want, if you get too into imagining the ones you do." Eliot looks at Quentin's list and nods consideringly. "Okay, high heel worship is off the table. Pity, I have a really cute pair of stiletto boots around here somewhere."

"You cannot possibly want to be even taller than you already are," Quentin says. "You'll hit your head on the ceilings."

It's a pretty great conversation, actually, all in all. Honesty is -- a thing, for them, a barrier and a constant commitment all at the same time. And there's nothing to do here but be honest. More honest than they maybe were expecting to be, sometimes. ("Wait, you said you've never done _rituals and initiation rites_? Uh, the Trials?" "Come on, Q, that wasn't kinky." "It so fucking was, you absolutely got off on it." "...Maybe.") ("Strap-ons, penetrated by -- have done?" "Um, I. Yeah, a college girlfriend. Or. Yeah. It was good.")

Quentin takes Eliot's advice, when he feels his heart beating a little too fast, and focuses back on the things he's not excited about. Not the really bad ones -- the can’t-dos, where "no" is all he wrote, in every column, and where Eliot just straight up crossed out the whole line. But stuff like serving as art, or electricity play, which just seem meh, not that fun. Imagining those things gets his breathing even again, lets the flush recede from his cheeks. 

He thinks Eliot is taking notes, maybe, on which of the items they talk about make Quentin have to pause and re-focus, but Eliot's spidery handwriting is impossible to decipher from this angle.

Finally they’ve gone through everything. Eliot sets down his pen and reaches across the table to take Quentin's hand. "You still okay?" he asks.

"Yeah?" Quentin frowns at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Eliot shrugs. "I don't know, but it's worth checking. Talking can be as intense as doing, sometimes."

"If it is, I'm pretty sure you're not doing it right, when you're doing," Quentin says.

Eliot smirks at him, and his eyes go dark and intense. "Maybe you just haven't experienced someone talking the way I mean," he says.

Quentin swallows. "Are we done with the non-sexual part of this conversation?"

"Would you like to be?" Eliot's thumb is drawing circles over Quentin's pulse.

"Yes," Quentin breathes.

Eliot picks up Quentin's hand, kisses his palm. "This isn't a scene," he says. "We're not doing any of the things on the list, I'm not taking charge. But I'd love to have sex with you right now."

Quentin takes advantage of his hand being so near Eliot's face to pull him close for a kiss, his fingers sliding along Eliot's jaw and into his hair. "Yeah," he says, with what he's pretty sure will be his last scrap of coherence for the next little while. "Let's do that."


	2. Chapter 2

"If you tell me to pause, I'll pause," Eliot says, for probably the sixth time. "If you tell me to stop, I'll stop. If you have _any_ desire to wait for a minute, or be done, for any reason, you have to do it, Q. I'm counting on you."

"I will, El." Quentin says. He manages not to sound impatient. He knows this is important, life-and-death important, to Eliot. "You can trust me."

Eliot smiles at him, the closed-mouth I-have-too-many-feelings-and-don't-like-it smile he does a lot when Quentin says sappy stuff like that. "I love you, Q," he says, and steps forward to kiss Quentin. Quentin relaxes happily into it, leaning against Eliot's chest, feeling warmth wash over him.

Eliot pulls away long before Quentin's ready to be done kissing. He murmurs against Quentin's lips, "You ready to be good for me?"

Another wave of warmth washes over Quentin, harsher and deeper this time, sending shudders down through his spine. "Yes," he whispers, and tries to go in for another kiss.

Eliot stops him with a firm hand on his chest, pushing them apart. "Already doing things without permission?" he asks, frowning a little. "Maybe you forgot how to do this." He cups Quentin's face in one big hand, rubs his thumb over Quentin's mouth, then slides his hand back into Quentin's hair and gets a firm grip. Quentin focuses on not letting his knees buckle. "Are you going to show me you can do better than that? Or is this going to be disappointing?"

"No. No," Quentin says. His head feels light, floaty. "I won't disappoint you, I'll never."

"That's my boy," Eliot says. "Now stay there." He takes a big step back from Quentin, looks him up and down hungrily. Quentin stays still, although the muscles in his legs, in his abdomen, want to flex and tighten. He's not going to squirm. Eliot didn't say he could move yet. He wants to, he wants to so bad--

He's distracted when Eliot starts undressing, calmly, laying each piece of clothing (why so many pieces of clothing, it's like he _wants_ Quentin to lose his mind watching him) neatly over the back of the chair that Eliot uses as a staging area for outfits and Quentin uses to store clothes he doesn’t feel like putting away. Quentin watches, captivated, as more of Eliot's neck comes into view when he undoes his tie and his collar, his wrists as he undoes his cuffs. Every button opened on his shirt bares more pale skin, dark pink nipples, dark hair across his chest and lean pale stomach. The jingle of his belt buckle coming undone makes Quentin shudder.

Eliot stops when he's down to his boxers, the silk not doing much of anything to conceal how much he's already enjoying this. Quentin's mouth waters. "Excellent," he says, low, and Quentin has to actively stop himself from squirming. "Your turn. Stay still."

Eliot undresses him with just as much care and precision, way more care and precision than a t-shirt and jeans really need, it's not like they need to stay creased in a certain way, can't we just throw them on the floor like normal? Eliot hooks his fingers into the waistband of Quentin's underwear, slowly slides them down so Quentin can step out of them. There's a moment in the process where he's eye level with Quentin's cock, which is already most of the way towards hard. Eliot looks up at Quentin through his lashes, crouched there in front of him, and lets his tongue sneak out of his mouth to lick his own lower lip, just a flash of pink Quentin can barely see. Quentin sucks in a sharp breath.

"Very nice," Eliot says, straightening up and looking Quentin up and down again. "Fuck, I can't believe how turned on you are just from this." He cups Quentin's chin in one hand, tips Quentin's face up. "All I've done is talk to you and take your clothes off. What are you going to do when I actually get around to touching you?"

Quentin swallows, makes a herculean effort to not lunge up for a kiss. "Anything you want me to do," he says.

"Good answer," Eliot says. He runs the backs of his fingers over Quentin's cheek. "I'd like to tie your hands in front of you, then have you suck my cock, then ride me. How's that sound?" His eyes sharpen a little, his face coming out of its sultry expression. "Actual check-in. Okay?"

"Actual answer, yes," Quentin says, although his voice is still breathy. He knows he's flushed already, and he blushes even deeper when Eliot laughs, delighted. He loves to make Eliot laugh, loves to make him happy.

Eliot's as careful and precise in wrapping the enchanted rope around Quentin's wrists as he was in undressing him. He slips a finger under the loops to make sure they're not too tight, leaves a nice long tail of rope that he then takes in hand and uses to draw Quentin towards the bed. Quentin hesitates a beat before he follows so he can enjoy the tug of the rope pulling his hands forward.

Eliot arranges himself on the bed, propped against the headboard, and guides Quentin into a kneeling position between his legs. "You’re being so good, just letting me look at you as long as I want," he tells Quentin, toying with the waistband of his own boxers. Quentin shivers and can't help squirming a little, arching his back and rolling his hips forward. Eliot grins at him. "Watch," he says, low in his chest, and he slides his boxers down. Quentin couldn't tear his eyes away if you paid him, watching Eliot's cock emerge, starting to flush and fill against his thigh.

Eliot runs just a couple of fingers up the length of his cock, takes himself in hand. "I want you to imagine I'm doing this to you," he tells Quentin. "Every way I touch myself, think about if I was touching you instead."

That instruction is pretty redundant, honestly, because Quentin was already thinking about it, watching Eliot's fingers tighten just under the head of his cock, his thumb rub at a spot along the side Quentin knows is so sensitive. Quentin's hips twitch forward, his thighs flex. His bound hands are so close to his dick, it actually takes more effort to hold them out of the way, but if he's not good Eliot might stop touching himself and that would be devastating.

"You're so gorgeous, Q," Eliot says, interrupting himself a little bit with a soft moan as his hand works just a little faster, going from agonizing teasing to almost-good-enough, Quentin knows exactly what that pace feels like and he imagines he can feel that big hand wrapped around his own dick, starting to stroke in earnest. "Giving me a nice little show to get hard to. I love it when you're so squirmy like this, you _want_ it so fucking badly and you're so patient waiting for it."

Quentin's skin is on fire from his face and neck all the way down his spine, over his stomach and thighs. He _is_ squirming, his dick twitching against his stomach, fists clenching and unclenching and arms straining a little bit against the ropes keeping them in place. He arches his back deliberately, lets his head fall back and rolls his shoulders to push his chest forward. Eliot wants a show. Eliot asked him to watch, and he's watching, but it's so hard to just watch, he wants so much more.

"Remind me what our game plan is?" Eliot asks, continuing to stroke himself.

"Tie me up, suck your cock, ride you," Quentin says breathlessly. His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth, too unfocused to form the words clearly.

"Step one done," Eliot says. He lets go of his cock, reaches forward to grab the knot binding Quentin's wrists. "Let's work on step two, shall we?"

Quentin lunges forward harder than he should, ends up face-planted in Eliot's stomach, and Eliot laughs again, lifts Quentin's shoulders to help him re-balance and pulls on the rope so Quentin's arms are stretched straight out in front of him, palms flat against Eliot’s chest, face even with Eliot's dick. Quentin looks up at him gratefully -- what would Quentin do without him? He rests his forehead on Eliot's hip for a second, catching his breath. Eliot sweeps Quentin's hair back away from his face with one hand, caresses his cheek.

"Whenever you're ready," he says, soothing, not a single hint of impatience in his voice. "You're doing so good for me already."

Quentin's the impatient one. He levers himself up by pressing his hands into Eliot's chest and leans until he can get his mouth on the head of Eliot's cock, carefully moves until it's vertical under his mouth. Then, when he's sure he's got the angle right, he lets himself sink down onto it.

"Fuck, yes, Q," Eliot hisses. One of his hands stays on Quentin's jaw, thumb resting gently on his cheek where it's stretching to accommodate Eliot's cock. The other is holding Quentin's bound hands, tangling their fingers together. "God, the fucking _mouth_ on you, fucking incredible."

Quentin works himself a little further onto Eliot's cock, using his tongue to wet it and make it easier for his lips to slide. It's thick enough to be a challenge, but he loves the fullness, the slight strain in his jaw. From this angle he's got full control of how deep he takes it, whether he keeps taking it at all -- he could turn his head in a second, easily let it fall from his mouth. Some little logical voice in the back of his brain recognizes that Eliot set it up like this on purpose, so Quentin could stop any time he wanted without having to wait for Eliot to let him, and love surges through him, fills his heart to overflowing.

He doesn't want to stop, obviously. Eliot is breathing hard, humming approvingly with every bob of Quentin's head down his length, stroking the back of one of Quentin's hands with his thumb. "I hope you know how beautiful you look right now," he murmurs, and Quentin moans a little around his dick, shivering. "Those pretty pink lips stretched around me. Your hair all over the place, have I mentioned lately how much I love your hair? Would you like me to help you get it out of your face?" Quentin nods as best he can with a mouthful of cock, and Eliot sweeps his fingers through Quentin's hair, gathering it gently at the nape of his neck. "If my hands are too heavy or I'm pushing you down too much, scratch my chest, okay?"

Quentin says "Mm-hm," already dipping down again to take Eliot in deeper. Eliot is so good to him, he feels so good on his tongue, his fingers feel so good against Quentin's scalp. Every nerve in every inch of Quentin's skin is buzzing, and every place where he's touching Eliot is singing. His dick is hanging hard between his legs, untouched, but Eliot hasn’t told him he can touch, yet, so he’ll wait. He’s good, he’s going to be good. 

He knows he won't be able to get Eliot off like this, not fast, anyway, he'd need his hands for that. But honestly that's not really a concern, Quentin would be fine if he could just stay here all day, leisurely sucking Eliot's cock. He has no idea how much time is passing, he has no desire to have any idea. Everything he needs to care about is right here, the tension of the rope around his wrists, Eliot's chest hot under his forearms, his own breathing slow and even and timed so he can sink down further, get Eliot deeper into his mouth.

At some point Eliot takes his hands out of Quentin's hair, shifting Quentin's focus just enough so he can hear Eliot say, "Give me three more, then we're going to sit you up." Quentin makes a pained noise in the back of his throat, and makes sure to make these last three strokes the deepest, the wettest, the best ones he can give. Eliot helps him sit up on his knees again, then sits further up himself, bends forward and gets his hands back in Quentin's hair so he can pull Quentin in and kiss him deeply. Quentin's mouth is a little numb, and Eliot licks and bites at his lips until sensation returns and Quentin is gasping into his mouth.

"You're so good at that," Eliot whispers, resting his forehead against Quentin's. Quentin's breathing like he just sprinted a mile. His cock is dripping precome, making a mess on the sheets. "Did you like it?"

"Yeah," Quentin gasps. "So fucking much."

"That's my good boy," Eliot says. "What's the next step?"

Quentin racks his brain, somehow manages to dig out a coherent answer. "Ride you." Just saying it makes his thighs tense as he imagines rocking onto Eliot's cock. "Please, yes, Eliot please--"

"Shh," Eliot soothes. "I've got you, Q. I've got everything you need." He kisses Quentin again, swallows Quentin's deep moan. "This is where the choreography gets a little tricky," he says when he pulls away, not letting Quentin catch his mouth to pull him back in. "We need to get you ready to take my cock--" Quentin whines, high-pitched. "--but I don't want to have to pull you around too much, so I'm going to get up, then you lay yourself forward and then roll onto your back, okay? Don't worry about getting into a particular spot, I'll come to you."

Quentin shakes in place until Eliot is up off the bed, then follows instructions. His cock presses into the sheets as he does, the first actual stimulation he's gotten, and it takes everything he has to actually roll over instead of just rutting against the bed trying to get _more_.

Eliot seems to notice, and he's smiling when his face comes back into view, as Quentin settles on his back. "You're being so good," he says. He kneels between Quentin's legs, coming right up to him like he promised, and smooths his hands down Quentin's stomach, over his thighs. "You could have been touching your cock this whole time, I know you can reach it, and you stayed good for me." He slides his hands back up, tracing the same path in reverse, slowing a little as his fingers just skate by Quentin's cock, not touching. "Would you like me to touch it?"

"Please," Quentin basically yells, arching off the bed, pushing up into Eliot's firm pressure on his torso.

"I don't want you getting too close yet," Eliot says. "You get ten strokes. Does that sound like the right amount?"

"Please," Quentin says again. Eliot just stares him down, smiling. "Yes," Quentin says, finally finding the appropriate answer somewhere in the mess of arousal that is his brain. "Yeah that's good, please--"

Eliot wraps his hand around him and Quentin screams and shudders all at once. "Count them out for me."

"One," Quentin says as Eliot drags his fist up Quentin's cock, firm and slow and holy _fuck_. "Two. Fuck, fuck, three, oh my _fucking_ god El--" He has zero volume control, he's alternating between basically screaming and barely whispering as he gasps and tries to keep counting even on his in-breaths so Eliot will keep stroking him. "Four, _fiveohfuckgod_ \--" Eliot's free hand is still pressing firmly into his hip, keeping him from arching too far up, making sure he only gets exactly the stimulation Eliot gives him. "Six-- fuck, it’s too good, El, El, I--" Eliot holds his hand still, gripping tight at the base of Quentin's cock.

"You're too close," Eliot says matter-of-factly, as Quentin shakes with frustrated arousal under him. "We'll have to save the other four for later. You did so good, darling, thank you for telling me." He leans over Quentin, presses a light kiss to his cheekbone, pulls away before Quentin can turn his head and try for a real kiss. "Are you good for me to open you up?"

"Yeah," Quentin says, and manages not to actually sob when Eliot takes his hand off his cock. He knows what comes next, it'll be so good, Eliot's fingers inside him and fucking him and it'll be so fucking good, he has to stay together until he gets it, Eliot's counting on him. He bends his knees and plants his feet on the bed.

Eliot doesn't tease, for once, just gets plenty of lube on his fingers and presses in right away. Quentin's been so tense, shaking and waiting and holding himself back from the edge. Now he just goes boneless, relaxing all the way as Eliot fingers him, knees falling open. It's so good, to let the bed hold him and let himself drift on the wavesl of sensation as Eliot stretches him open. This is that real surrender he's been craving, and he feels something come loose in his chest, sighs so deep it's like he's been holding his breath for months.

Eliot's hand stops moving, for a moment. "Quentin, check in, are you okay?"

"Good," Quentin mumbles. His eyes are closed, he wouldn't be sure he was still inhabiting his body except that Eliot's fingers are still inside him, anchoring him. "I'm fine, El, just." He sighs again. "Real far under."

"Okay," Eliot says, sounding apprehensive. "Stay with me, I've got you."

"Mm," Quentin says. He reaches forward with his bound hands, rubs his knuckles against Eliot's arm, he thinks. "I know you do. 'S why it's so good."

He hears Eliot shudder out a laugh, imagines the wide, gorgeous smile above him, like the warmth of the sun, love that can hold him safe forever. Eliot's fingers start moving again, pressing in a little harder, thicker, another one added to keep opening Quentin up.

Like this, Quentin's need is still there, but it's over to the side, a little. He can reach for it if he wants -- if Eliot touches his dick it'll be front and center again, he knows that, but it's perfect right where it is for now. Everything is hazy tingling pleasure. The sound of Eliot's breathing, deep and slow, the little wet noises of lube that precede every press of fingers into him, make his nerves sing. It's a weird balance of being hyperaware and totally unaware. The only things that are getting in are the good things, nothing else exists, and the good things are so, _so_ good.

After a lifetime Eliot draws his fingers out of Quentin, and Quentin stays boneless. He's excited for whatever comes next, but it's like, a deep-down excitement instead of a desperate one, and he knows it'll come, the thing he's waiting for.

He feels Eliot shifting, opens his eyes to find him stretching himself out on the bed beside Quentin. "Checking in," he says, petting Quentin's hair. "Good? Pause, keep going?"

Quentin smiles at him, writhes a little in place. "Keep going," he breathes.

"Would you like those other four strokes now?" Eliot asks. Quentin nods, biting his lip, the muscles of his stomach tensing in anticipation. Eliot swallows hard. "Fuck, Q," he whispers. "I don't-- there are no fucking words for this. You are the sexiest thing that has ever existed." 

Quentin hums, letting the praise wash over him, fizzing its way through his nerves. Eliot slides a hand up his thigh, getting ready, and wraps his fingers around Quentin's cock. "Start from seven," he murmurs in Quentin's ear.

Quentin turns his head, buries his face in Eliot's shoulder. "Seven," he says, hot against Eliot's skin. "Eight. Nine, _oh_ \--" he shudders, his need sharpening a bit as a wave of pleasure sweeps from his cock out through all his limbs. "Mm. Ten." Eliot leaves his hand on Quentin's cock, squeezing just under the head, and Quentin kisses blindly at Eliot's shoulder, licks sweat off his skin.

"Shh-shh-shh," Eliot says, and gradually loosens his fingers, letting Quentin adjust to the lack of stimulation. "Roll over and get on your knees, and we'll get you onto me."

Eliot props himself up against the headboard in a seated position as Quentin follows directions lazily. He crawls forward on his knees, Eliot reaching out to hold his shoulders, steady him, help guide him until he's kneeling over Eliot's lap, straddling him.

Eliot tugs on the rope around Quentin's wrists. "You still want this on, or would you rather take it off?"

Quentin makes a considering noise, trying to get himself to think. "On," he says finally. "Keep me yours."

Eliot laughs, cups Quentin's face in both hands. "I don't even have to tie you up for that," he says. "You're so good for me, you're perfect. You're mine, I'm yours."

Quentin moans and kisses him, hard, and tries to press himself as close as possible, get every bit of skin to skin contact he possibly can. Eliot laughs into his mouth, lifts Quentin's wrists up and over Eliot's head, looping Quentin's arms around his shoulders.

"Here we go," he whispers against Quentin's lips, and reaches under Quentin's thighs to help lever him up, guide him forward and down and press inside him.

Quentin eases onto him and sinks down, down, into a feeling of fullness and lightness and being _held_ so nicely. Eliot lets out a gasp, and his arms wrap around Quentin's waist, hold him close. Quentin leans his head forward into the crook of Eliot's neck. Eliot's so deep inside him, thick and hard, perfect. Nothing's ever been more perfect. Quentin could live here, with Eliot in him, and never want anything else in the world, ever. 

"Good job, darling," Eliot murmurs against the side of Quentin's head. "You open up for me so good." He hugs Quentin tighter, and Quentin's dick slides between their bodies, and Quentin gasps. "I'm gonna start moving, okay?"

"Mm," Quentin says against Eliot's neck. Eliot doesn't move right away, and some side corner of his brain realizes Eliot's waiting for a real answer. "Yes please," he murmurs.

"There you go," Eliot says. "Stay with me, Q, I want you here for this." And he rolls his hips, drawing just out of Quentin, pushing back in.

Quentin moans, his whole body swimming with pleasure. Eliot rocks into him again, then again. There's not really enough leverage in this position to go fast or hard so it's just press in, ease out, grind against each other slow and deep. Quentin lets his head fall back, gasping for air, his heart hammering in his chest. Eliot keeps his firm hold around his waist and kisses the hollow of his throat, bites at his neck.

"Yes," Eliot breathes, his voice vibrating over Quentin's skin. "I've got you. I've got you. Do you feel good?" In response, Quentin moves with him, making each stroke just that little bit deeper, longer. "You're perfect. Feels so fucking good to be inside you. Do you feel good?" Quentin shudders, rolls his hips. "Quentin." Eliot takes one hand off Quentin's waist, cups the back of Quentin's head. "How do you feel?"

"El," Quentin whines, overwhelmed. " _Fuck_."

Eliot stops moving his hips, tips Quentin's head forward, kisses him long and slow and dirty. Quentin melts, he wants to crawl into this moment and curl up and never stop, this is everything. "Quentin," Eliot says again, his voice soft. "Come back, love. Come on back a bit for me. I want to see you." He holds Quentin's head steady, looking deep into his eyes.

Quentin takes a deep breath, then another, blinks a few times. He's still floating, his skin is tingling with aftershocks, but he can feel the stretch of Eliot's cock in his ass more than he could before, the pressure of his thighs resting over Eliot's. He nods at Eliot.

"Hi," Eliot says, smiling at him. "You here?"

"I'm here," Quentin says. He grinds down on Eliot's cock, and Eliot makes a cut-off noise, laughs a little.

"How do you feel?" he asks again.

"Extremely fucking good," Quentin says. The words are soft around the edges, but he can say them. His dick is throbbing he's so hard, rubbing against the sweat-slick skin of Eliot's stomach. He's not on the edge, quite, but only because everything is edge, right now, everything is amazing.

"Good," Eliot says. He brushes Quentin's hair away from his forehead where it's sticking with sweat. "I want you here with me when we come, okay? Stay with me."

"Will do," Quentin says, and grinds down against Eliot again.

Eliot grabs the back of his neck, pulls him in for a fierce kiss. "What was this step supposed to be, again?" he asks, somehow sounding innocent despite literally everything he's doing at that moment.

"Ride you," Quentin says, muffled, sucking on Eliot's lower lip.

"You don't seem to be doing much of that," Eliot says. "It's a little disappointing."

Quentin makes an anguished noise and shifts his legs so he can get a better angle. "Sorry, I'll ride you, I want to--"

"And there's my good boy again," Eliot says. He moans as Quentin finds the right rhythm, still deep and slow but a little harder now. "Fuck yourself on my cock, make it good for yourself, are you enjoying it? I want you to enjoy it."

"Fuck," Quentin says, and shoves himself back onto Eliot's cock. "So fucking much."

"I want to feel you come on my cock, Q. How do you want to make that happen?" Eliot asks. One of his arms is still tight around Quentin's waist, pressing their bodies together, the other tangled in Quentin's hair at the nape of his neck. "Tell me."

Quentin moans. Now that he's not so far under, his need is bright and sharp again, the edge is within reach, he can taste it. Every motion of his hips lets him also rub his cock against Eliot's stomach, heat and friction almost but not quite good enough to get there. "Touch me?" he says, half a question, mostly a plea.

"Should I stroke you, or just hold still and let you fuck my hand? You know what, don't answer that," Eliot adds immediately. "We're going to do the second one. Okay?"

"Fuck yes, please--" Quentin whines a little when Eliot lets go of his waist to get his hand between their bodies, but then his fingers, still slippery with traces of lube, are forming a tight circle just around the head of Quentin's cock and Quentin's next motion slides his dick through Eliot's fingers and into the heat and pressure of his hand. "Oh my _fucking_ god," Quentin gasps. Every time he settles back on Eliot's cock he gets less of Eliot's hand on his own dick, every time he rolls his hips forward Eliot's cock slides out of him but Quentin gets to fuck into his grip. It's fucking good motivation to move, is what it is, try and get the most out of both directions of movement.

"Yes, fuck, get yourself off on me," Eliot breathes. "You're so fucking desperate for it, you can barely decide where to go, can you? You want to split yourself open on my dick, you want my hand on you, you want all of it." He guides Quentin's head forward, kisses his cheek, surprisingly tender for the moment they're in. "You can have all of it, love, you can have everything you want, you're so fucking good for me."

"Eliot," Quentin moans. The edge is right there, his abs are twitching with it and his ass feels so fucking good with Eliot filling him up. "El, please, fuck, El--"

Eliot kisses his cheek again, a bare brush of lips, as Quentin fucks himself breathless on his cock and his hand. "Yes, darling?" he asks, and Quentin's spine is made of lightning, his ribs are fire, he's so fucking close and he wants Eliot to say it.

"El, El--" Quentin can't get the words out, it's too fucking good, he can't process anything other than _please, yes, Eliot_ and he _wants_ , so much.

"Ask for what you want, Q."

"CanIcome canI please El fuck I'm so close--"

Eliot's hand tightens in Quentin's hair, and he positions Quentin's face so they're eye to eye. "Look at me when you come for me," he says. "And yes, you can come now."

Quentin looks into Eliot's eyes, open-mouthed, throat working silently, as he thrusts into Eliot's hand once more and comes. As soon as he's over the edge he's screaming, just shouting in Eliot's face, his come coating Eliot's hand and making his grip even slicker around Quentin's cock.

"Fuck, Q," Eliot gasps, choking a little. He thrusts up into Quentin and Quentin has to close his eyes, there are fireworks in his brain, and Eliot shudders and presses his face into Quentin's shoulder and comes in him, both of them shaking, clutching each other and tangled so tightly.

Quentin's panting, resting his forehead on Eliot's shoulder, every nerve still fizzing happily and his cock achingly sensitive between Eliot's fingers. He could stay here, he could never move again, this is good. Eliot has him, he's safe, he's good.

"That's my fucking good boy," Eliot says against Quentin's skin, and Quentin shivers. "I'm so proud of you, Q. You did so well, you made me feel amazing. Do you feel good?" Quentin nods emphatically against Eliot's shoulder. "Perfect. My fucking perfect boy." Eliot sighs, deep and full-bodied. "I'm going to untie your hands." Eliot does the right tuts and the knots undo themselves, the ropes falling away. Quentin slides his arms out of them, elbows complaining a bit after being in one position for so long, and cups Eliot's face in both hands to kiss him.

"Mm," Eliot says happily, smiling against his mouth. "You're so lovely. My sweet boy. We need to clean you up now, okay?"

"Yeah," Quentin says, resigned, but he kisses Eliot once more for good measure before he lets Eliot help him slide backwards off of Eliot's softening cock. Eliot lays him down carefully, head towards the foot of the bed but the sheets are so soft, cool and comforting against Quentin's sticky skin.

"How are your hands?" he asks as he clears away their come with a quick spell, helps Quentin straighten his legs, massages his tired quads a little bit. "Wiggle your fingers."

Quentin follows instructions, rolls his wrists a little. "All good," he says. He looks at his arms; the ropes have left little pink indents, the kind that will fade in a matter of minutes. Quentin traces his fingers over the marks on his opposite wrist. They're nice, they're a way to remember. He likes when he has good things to remember.

Eliot stretches out next to him, pulling a couple pillows with him and tucking one under each of their heads. He cups Quentin's face in one hand. "Hi," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," Quentin sighs, rolling towards Eliot, drawn into him magnetically. "Thank you."

"You really are so good for me, Q." Eliot kisses his forehead. "As in, you're good for following directions, but you also are such a beautiful piece of my life. It's so much easier to be my best self when I'm with you."

Quentin snorts a little. "That's a lot to process when I'm still half gone," he says. The warmth of Eliot's chest is an anchor in a hazy world, making it a little bit easier to pull together sentences. 

"You don't have to process it," Eliot says. "Just hear it. I love you."

"I love you too," Quentin mumbles, his heart full and aching. He burrows further into Eliot's grasp, tucks his head under Eliot's chin.

Eliot holds him like that for a while, until both their heartbeats are steady, until Quentin finally stops trying to nuzzle his way into Eliot's chest and just relaxes.

"Okay," he says against Eliot's skin. "I'm back all the way." His legs and his ass are pleasantly achy, his face is sweaty where it's pressed against Eliot.

"Welcome back," Eliot says. He shifts a little so there's some space between them, just enough for him to look down into Quentin's face without craning his neck too much. It's disappointing, but not shattering like it would have been a few minutes ago. "How was that?"

"Incredibly fucking good," Quentin says, grinning broadly at Eliot. "Jesus. You sure you're not psychic? Because you're really fucking good at knowing exactly what I need."

"A less magnanimous boyfriend would kick you out of bed for that slander," Eliot says. "You're lucky you're cute."

Quentin shrugs. "Worth it. I got what I came for."

"You did indeed," Eliot purrs. "Really, though. I'm glad it was good. That's the point of doing that whole list exercise, so I can figure out what'll make it good for you."

"I know you wanted the list-- and you were right, it was worth it to do," Quentin says. "But I think you just-- know me, El. Like. What did you actually think about, when you were deciding what we should do?"

Eliot considers. "Things you like most -- going down on me, getting opened up, getting fucked really deep. Which are all incidentally things I enjoy very much as well," he adds, grinning. "And then-- how to make sure you knew what to expect, what was coming next. How to check in along the way but let you stay in that headspace you like. How far into it I could let you get and still bring you back out safely."

"Yeah, none of that was on the list," Quentin says. "You did that part by yourself. _That's_ why I trust you."

Eliot's smile tightens a little, and he kisses Quentin, long and slow. When they break apart, his face is more relaxed again. "Thank you," he says. "I-- I don't get it, but thank you."

"I don't get why you want to look at me naked all the time," Quentin says. "Some things may just have to remain a mystery."

Eliot opens his mouth like he's going to argue, but closes it again. Quentin's glad. This would be about the twentieth time they've had that conversation, and usually they "resolve" it by fucking, but they're both definitely too tired for another round right now. "Anyway," Eliot says. "That was incredibly fucking good for me too, and I will happily do it again, with proper planning and discussion."

"Perfect," Quentin says. "And the rest of the time you can just fuck my brains out the normal way, without tying me up."

Eliot laughs. "Greedy, Q."

"Yeah, but you love it."

"I really do," Eliot says, and Quentin leans in to meet him for a kiss.


End file.
